


Lingers

by Akua



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Feelings, Friendship, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Sorry Not Sorry, Trauma, memories can hurt, time dulls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:24:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akua/pseuds/Akua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time dulled many things. Good and bad indiscriminately.</p><p>Bilbo's adventure left its marks. Non-visible scars that will never really fade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingers

The world is ash and bitter cold.

 

A numbness had invaded every aspect of the daily grind. The methodical motions of shoving gruel and bread past his lips took more energy then it otherwise should. With his fingers numb to the point of clumsiness and his tongue dulled to where not even the near revolting taste and texture could put him off.

 

It was like ashes in his mouth. It was a cloying flavor that washed over his tongue and lingered in the hollow spaces of his throat. There was no warmth to it and was more akin to cold ashes from a fire that had long since been spent.

 

He could have as much food and as much drink as was possible, but the taste of ash would linger.

 

_He could speak and talk and exist and feast and fast and drink—_

 

The memory of food lingered in his mind, all the more taunting for it's existence now because of the lack of it. Of course it was more than just the memory of food itself, but also encompassed the company that had been part of the ritual for some time.

 

– _but nothing could rid him of the lingering lack that clawed against his insides, in the hollow places that had been left behind._

 

The memory of warmth from a small fire and the pressure of hot shoulders buffering against the oncoming winter chill still lingered in Bilbo Baggins's mind even while he, now, ate on his own. The memory of strong shoulders buffeting the chill away made the fresh bite of it all the more clawing. The remembrance of spices and food and warmth were now like distant stars.  
  
The existence of memory made it all the worse.  
  
Bilbo Baggins had come to find that his presence was useless and generally unnecessary among the fields below. He hadn't the strength to move corpses like the big folk nor had he the stomach to burn them. His hands were numb and clumsy compared to steady dwarf and experienced elfin hands—no healer or cook would dare let him near to their craft at this time.

 

A Hobbit had no place on the battlefield, not really. Bilbo had found this out the hard way. Perhaps he could muster up the courage and strength for the fight, but it was the toll of his exertions that had Bilbo tipping his head. He didn't have the heart to bury the dead.

 

– _Thorin's chest stuttered under his hands, sickly hot and sticky with blood. But the fur on his coat was still unbearably soft and seemingly alive under his touch. His voice was low, soft and slowly filling with a resigned peace—_

 

His head ached, burning fiercely in a mockery of warmth.

 

Bilbo often found himself on the icy wasteland of Ravenhill. Standing in the spot that Thorin had breathed his last. The stain of Thorin's life no longer lingered there on the ice, the elements had long since carried that all away. The fresh snow had bled it away. But each day Bilbo dutifully cleaned the snow away from where Thorin last laid upon this earth. No one asked it of him and no one was there to witness each day that he cleared the space.

 

The dwarrows might believe in stone and unyielding caskets, but Bilbo had always believed in the return to earth. Supposedly dwarrows were made from the very stone of mountains. Perhaps they were returning to their beginnings in their own way and Bilbo wasn't the type to question the belief that that race would follow for those that pass on from this plane.

 

Bilbo would sometimes smoke his pipe here, trying to remember the feeling of warmth that used to come with the act. He would breath in deep the smell of the weed and, strangely, could only smell the brand that Thorin had smoked last and hear lingering murmurs of what could only be Kili and Fili from his memories.

 

The act brought no warmth, no joy... only the memory of it.

 

Soon, Bilbo's departure was upon him. And this was to be his last afternoon upon this spot. He cleaned the snow away one last time and found that the shape he had scraped away with his bare hands was more generically person shaped than to Thorin's specifications. The snow reached Bilbo's knees now, and soaked his trousers like trailing fat fingers that made him shake.

 

The funerals had been long and the speeches had been dear. And Bilbo had come to peace with Thorin within Thorin's final moment. But all the same, words bubbled in Bilbo's throat. Something wanted to be said. Bilbo lifted his eyes and gazed around himself for a time as he drew himself together and tried to articulate the words that lingered in his chest.  
  
“Herein... lies the last place Thorin Oakenshield laid upon this earth,” the words whispered in to the air like smoke to the wind. “When the winter fades, there will be no solid ground to stand hereupon. It will melt as all wintertime must melt. To make room for spring and new things.” Bilbo shifted and slowly sat down in the snow next to the scooped out hollow.

 

“Thorin made it so that this land can finally have spring—after a winter brought on by dragon fire... Its thanks to Thorin and his family that every dwarf of Erebor can return home.” Home was the reason why all of this started. It was what had started the quest, that bitter need for a home to return to. The gold sickness might have made Thorin lose sight of that for a time, but it had returned to him in the end.

 

“... there is a home here, now... and I hope all who follow can come to cherish it till the end of days. For the line of Durin perished to ensure it.”

 

The wind stole the words away.

 

Soon enough, Bilbo followed.

 

These lands would never see the Hobbit again.

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo planted his acorn in his garden and watched it grow.

 

Time dulled the bitter cold that followed him from that final battle. Watching the sapling grow in to a weedy oak seemed to help inch warmth back in to his life. The mild seasons of the Shire came and went. The passage of time like following rays of light through the windows as the sun rose and set.

 

Inevitable, and only important because the one counting the days made it important. Bilbo counted the days since that battle. The days turned to months, and the months turned to years. Time that son became a counter of what could no longer be had by those that had fallen.

 

_Time dulled many things._

 

The memory of buffeting shoulders and warmth faded from memory.

 

_Good and bad indiscriminately._

 

Without the memory haunting him, what he had now seemed more than enough.

 

But not even the existence and love for Frodo could erase the taste of ashes from Bilbo's mouth.

 

Because Bilbo knew what always happened to family that he grows to care for.


End file.
